The Project Gutenberg EBook of Little Folks (November 1884), by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Little Folks (November 1884) A Magazine for the Young Author: Various Release Date: January 17, 2009 [EBook #27823] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE FOLKS (NOVEMBER 1884) *** Produced by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net Transcriber's Note: Table of Contents has been added for the HTML version. Amendments can be read by placing cursor over words with a dashed underscore like this. LITTLE FOLKS: A Magazine for the Young. NEW AND ENLARGED SERIES. CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED. LONDON, PARIS & NEW YORK. [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] cover Contents PAGE A Little Too Clever 257 The Song of a Little Bird 267 A Few Words About the Dykes of Holland 267 Whistling For It 271 Little Toilers of the Night 273 A Game for Long Evenings 275 The Rival Kings 276 Little Margaret's Kitchen, And What She Did In It 279 Legends of the Flowers 280 Their Road To Fortune 281 The Fox and the Frog 288 The Children's Own Garden In November 290 Stories Told in Westminster Abbey 291 The Magic Music and its Message 293 Mornings At The Zoo 297 Mab, The Wolf, And The Waterfall 299 Where There's a Will, There's a Way 302 Home, Sweet Home 302 Our Sunday Afternoons 306 The Editor's Pocket-Book 309 Poor Pussy 312 The "Little Folks" Humane Society 313 The Happy Little River 316 Our Little Folks' Own Puzzles 317 Prize Puzzle Competition 318 Questions and Answers 319 Picture Wanting Words 320 Answers To Our Little Folks' Own Puzzles 320 A LITTLE TOO CLEVER. By the Author of "Pen's Perplexities," "Margaret's Enemy," "Maid Marjory," &c. CHAPTER XVI.—IN LONDON. hat is the meaning of this—this gross outrage?" stammered Grandpapa Donaldson, growing very red and angry. "By what right do you molest peaceful travellers? Go on, my dear," he added, addressing Mrs. Donaldson. "You and Effie go on; I will join you directly." "We will wait for you, father," Mrs. Donaldson said, in a sweet, pensive voice. "What do these gentlemen want?" "You cannot leave the carriage, madam," one of the men said, placing himself firmly against the door, and drawing a paper from his pocket. "I hold here a warrant for the apprehension of John and Lucy Murdoch, who put up last night at the 'Royal Hotel' at Edinburgh, and engaged a first-class compartment by the Scotch morning express." "You are making a mistake," Mrs. Donaldson said quietly. "Our name is not Murdoch." "A mistake you will have to pay dearly for!" the old gentleman cried irascibly. "It is preposterous, perfectly preposterous!" Elsie stood by, listening with all her ears, quite unable to understand the meaning of this strange scene, any more than that old Mr. Donaldson was evidently very annoyed and angry about it. When the words "John and Lucy Murdoch" fell on her ear, she gave a little start, for Meg's remarks came back to her mind, filling her with curiosity. Fortunately, no one was observing her, and her momentary confusion passed unobserved in the gloom of the carriage. Not for worlds would she have betrayed Meg. "Effie dear," Mrs. Donaldson said sweetly, "have you the book grandpapa gave you, and my umbrella?" "Yes, mamma; here they are," Elsie returned, as readily as she could. Never before had it seemed so difficult to bring out the word "mamma" naturally. It was the answer that Mrs. Donaldson wanted. "Then we are quite ready," she returned. "Please do not detain us any longer than you are obliged," she said haughtily to the man who held the carriage door; "my little girl is very tired." "Sorry for that," the stranger said, eyeing Elsie curiously. The officer had been examining the various items of luggage, peering under the seats, taking stock of everything. They seemed a trifle undecided about something, Elsie thought. When the man had completed his search, he turned to Elsie. "What is your name, my little girl?" he asked kindly, but with his eyes fixed upon her face. "Effie Donaldson," Elsie replied, not daring for Duncan's sake to speak the truth. "How long have you known this lady?" he asked. "It is mamma," Elsie answered, slowly and timidly, "and my Grandpapa Donaldson." The man said a few words in a low tone to the other, and then turned again to the old gentleman. "I am sorry to be obliged to detain you," he said, more respectfully than he had hitherto spoken. "My directions are to take into custody a lady and gentleman travelling from Edinburgh in a specially-engaged compartment. The little girl is not mentioned in my warrant, but I regret that she must be included. No doubt you will be able to set it straight. I advise you to come quietly, and then no force will be used." "Come quietly, indeed! I refuse to come at all!" the old gentleman exclaimed. "You are exceeding your authority, and will get yourself into trouble. Read me your warrant." Elsie listened silently while the officer read out something about a lady dressed as a widow passing under the name of Thwaites, and a gentleman, calling himself her brother, who had left the "Royal Hotel" that morning, and travelled to London in a specially-engaged carriage. This perplexed Elsie very much, for she remembered what Meg had said of the gentleman she had been told to call Uncle William, "then he passes himself off as her brother, and he's her husband all [Pg 257] the time," which seemed strangely like what the man had just read, except for the name Thwaites, which Elsie had never heard. "Why, it's most absurd!" the old gentleman cried. "The only point of similarity is that of my daughter being a widow. You have not the slightest ground for identifying us with the description you hold." "Nevertheless, I am compelled to take you before a magistrate, where you can explain to his satisfaction," the officer replied firmly, drawing from his pocket some strange instruments, looking like clumsy bracelets, with heavy chains linking them together. Mrs. Donaldson uttered a faint scream, and sank back on the carriage seat. The man, without a word, proceeded to clasp them on Mr. Donaldson's wrists, while the old gentleman fumed and stamped about the carriage. A signal brought up several porters and the guard of the train, who crowded round the door, eager to see the exciting scene. "Take this child in your arms and keep before me," one of the officials said in peremptory tones to a porter, who lifted Elsie up, and stood in readiness, while the "fairy mother" and Grandpapa Donaldson were assisted to alight. "That's a queer go!" said the guard, eyeing the old gentleman with a broad stare of astonishment. "It was a gentleman looking quite different that got in the train at Edinburgh." "Are you quite certain of that?" the officer asked him. "I'm pretty certain. They, as near as possible, missed the train. I was just starting her when they came flying across the platform. I caught sight of them with the little one between, being jumped almost off her feet. They couldn't have more than got in when we began to move." "You didn't look into this compartment at any of the places you stopped at, then?" the officer asked. "I caught sight of the lady and the little girl once as I passed along the train at Carlisle," the man replied. "I don't remember noticing the gentleman, but I fancy he was asleep, with a large silk handkerchief over his head." "Name and address, please?" the officer said, drawing out a pocket-book, in which he wrote quickly a few lines. The lady and gentleman were then conducted across the station, one of the officers, who were both dressed quite plainly, walking on either side of them. They attracted very little attention as they passed quickly on, only the people close at hand turning to stare. In less than two minutes they were inside a cab, one officer accompanying them inside, another taking his seat on the box. After a jolting, uncomfortable drive of some distance, they passed through some gates into a great courtyard, which seemed to be surrounded by a huge dark mass of buildings. Here the officer sprang out and helped them to alight. Some other men in uniforms came out of a doorway and crowded round the prisoners. The officer who accompanied them gave some directions concerning Elsie, to which she was listening, and trying in vain to understand, when Mrs. Donaldson burst out sobbing, exclaiming wildly, "Will you part me from my child? Anything but that! Do what you will with me, only let my child be with me. She will perish with fright. Father, I implore you, do not let them be so cruel! Effie, my darling, do not leave me!" Elsie tried to move towards her, but was held firmly by the hands of one of the policemen. She was dreadfully frightened and bewildered, and would have clung to Mrs. Donaldson, had she been allowed, in her dread of facing new and unknown terrors. But not a chance was given to her. She was quite helpless in the strong grasp that held her firmly, though not harshly. Mrs. Donaldson began to catch her breath quickly, as two men caught hold of her arms and began to lead her along, while the one who had charge of Elsie led her away in another direction. The next moment Elsie heard a piercing scream, and turning her head, saw what, as far as she could make out, appeared to be the resisting, struggling form of the unfortunate "fairy mother" being carried into the hall by two men. CHAPTER XVII.—IN A STRANGE PLACE. lsie was presently delivered into the hands of a woman, who asked her, not unkindly, whether she wanted food. Elsie was much too fatigued and perturbed to think of eating, so the woman told her she must undress herself and go to bed. She was taken to a large bare room where there were other children asleep in small hard beds. One was apportioned to her, and the woman stood by while she undressed. Elsie wondered very much what sort of place this could be, and why Mrs. Donaldson had not been allowed to take her with her. She puzzled her head over it in vain. Only one thing was clear: that both her companions had been brought here against their will, and were very angry about it. [Pg 258] Perhaps Elsie would have thought more about her own discomfort and loneliness if her mind had been less exercised about Duncan. She wondered what had happened to him after she had been parted from him by that shameful trick of the wicked "fairy mother." How angry and indignant she felt when she thought of it! Had Duncan wanted her? She seemed to see him lying up in that dark, stifling garret, perfectly still, on the dirty, unwholesome bed. She crept up and touched him. He was cold and dead. Then her mother came in, with grannie and Robbie following in slow procession behind. They were dressed in beautiful white robes like angels, and as they passed to the bedside they each in turn looked at her with stern, reproachful eyes. Then her mother lifted Duncan in her arms and carried him away, closing the door after them, and leaving her quite alone. They had seen her, but would have nothing to do with her. She started up and rubbed her eyes, scarcely able to believe she had not seen those faces. Then she peered timidly round the room, and gradually recollecting all that had taken place, knew that it was a dream. After an uninviting breakfast of dry bread and water gruel, she was placed in a cab by one of the men who had accompanied them from the station on the previous night. To Elsie he looked like a gentleman, and not unkind. After some time she ventured to ask timidly where they were going. "Well," the man said, looking rather perplexed, "it's rather hard to explain; but you're going to see a gentleman who wants to ask you a few questions; and if you don't tell the truth, all I can say is I shouldn't like to stand in your shoes." At this Elsie was very frightened, for if the gentleman happened to ask her about Mrs. Donaldson, and such things, she dared not tell the truth. She was anxious to know whether the "fairy mother" would be there; but she was afraid to ask, for if she called her "mamma," perhaps this man might know she was saying something untrue, and if she called her anything else she might get to know it, and send word for Duncan to be turned into the streets. Elsie was terrified beyond measure. She was too frightened to say a word, so she kept quite silent. At last they arrived at a building where many people and some policemen were standing round the open doors. They passed this entrance, however, and went round to another. Her companion then conducted Elsie through some passages into a great bare, close-smelling hall, where there were a good many people waiting about, and some policemen with their hats off, which made them look much less terrible than they did in the streets, Elsie thought. She was too bewildered and frightened to look about her, and see what the place was like. The gentleman at her side took her hand, and led her forward. She heard some one say, "Bring a chair or a stool, and let her stand on it;" and, looking up, she saw an old gentleman with white hair sitting at a table, at the end of which was another younger gentleman, writing. The gentleman with the white hair bent over, and spoke to her. "What is your name?" he asked. Elsie hesitated, looking up with an appealing glance at the officer standing by her side. Then when the question was repeated, she stammered, "Effie Donaldson, please." "Ha!" said the old gentleman. "Effie Donaldson, is it? Do you know what an oath is?" "Yes, sir," Elsie timidly replied. "Now you must take your oath," he went on, "that you will answer me truly whatever I ask you; and I hope you understand that if you tell a falsehood after that, you will not only be doing a most wicked thing, but that you can be kept in prison for it." Elsie began to tremble violently at this dreadful warning. She took a swift glance round, to see if Mrs. Donaldson or the old gentleman were anywhere near, but could see nothing of either. The officer who had accompanied her, and stood by all the time, seemed to understand. "They are not in court," he said, in a low tone. "Just you speak the truth, and you'll be all right." He then handed her a Bible, which she was told to kiss; and he said some words which he bade her repeat. "That is the Bible," the old gentleman at the table said solemnly, "and you have sworn by that sacred Book that you will speak only the truth. Bear in mind what an awful thing it would be to tell a falsehood after that—ten times as wicked as any other falsehood. Now tell me who the lady and gentleman are who were in the train with you." Elsie trembled violently. She tried to think what to say, but could find no answer. There was Duncan on one side, that terrible warning the gentleman had given her on the other. She tried to say "I do not know," but was so afraid that that too was a falsehood, that the sentence died on her lips. "Speak up," the gentleman said. It seemed to Elsie as if ages elapsed while they stood waiting for her answer. She was conscious of nothing but the man standing by her side, and great silence everywhere, which let her hear the rushing sound in her ears and the beating of her heart. At last the magistrate spoke again. [Pg 259] "Tell me, is the lady your own mother?" Another question—worse than the first. "You must answer," the magistrate said, sharply; "and quickly too!" "Oh, I dare not!" burst from poor Elsie's frightened lips. "They will kill Duncan if I do!" Then in a moment she knew she had said too much. In her fright she had not seen the meaning of her own words. "Who is Duncan?" the white-haired gentleman asked kindly. "My brother," Elsie answered, with a big sob. "Where is he?" "In Edinburgh; and he's dreadfully ill," Elsie answered, forgetting every other thought in her anxiety for Duncan, and the generally bewildered state of her mind. "Is he with his mother?" "Oh, no! he's all alone, unless he's in the hospital. I don't know quite where he is, only they promised he should go to the hospital." "Who promised?" Again Elsie was silent; she could find no answer to that question. The gentleman did not seem angry, but asked another. "Where is your mother?" "Which one do you mean, please, sir?" Elsie asked, in a moment of utter bewilderment. "Then the lady who was with you yesterday is not really your mother?" "No," Elsie faintly admitted. She could hold out no longer against the questioning, but was feeling very much like you all do when you are playing at "old soldier," and, try as you will, at last the "Yes" or "No" pops out unawares. She, too, was very frightened and confused, which you would not be. "Come, we are getting on now," the old gentleman said, kindly. "Do not be frightened. Did this lady tell you to call her mamma?" "Yes, sir, but—I must not tell you anything." [Pg 260] Illustration: SHE WAS PLACED IN A CAB "she was placed in a cab" (p. 259). "And she is not your mamma, then, after all?" "No." "Are you frightened of her?" "Yes," Elsie exclaimed, with a quick, fearful glance round. "Now, I promise you that she shall do you no harm, if you tell me the truth. How did you come to be with her? Just tell me how it was." The old gentleman spoke with great assurance and kindliness, but still Elsie could not cast off the spell of fear Mrs. Donaldson still held over her. She had an almost superstitious belief that the "fairy mother" would find a way to work out her threats. For all she knew, she might even now have sent that message to Edinburgh which was to seal Duncan's fate. After the very mysterious incident that had happened in the train, for her to know that Elsie had disobeyed without hearing the words she had spoken seemed not only quite possible, but very likely indeed. The gentleman saw Elsie's hesitation, and spoke sharply again. "If you are obstinate, we shall have to use other methods to make you speak. Have you ever been in prison?" Elsie's eyes dilated with horror. "Oh, no!" she replied. "But you are very likely to find yourself there, unless you answer my questions better. Tell me at once where you met this lady?" "She was in a carriage; we were on the road to Killochrie." "Stop; how did you come there?" "We ran away from Sandy Ferguson's cottage." "Why did you do that? Now, tell me why." "He was very bad to us, and robbed us of our money and our clothes. Duncan thought he wanted to kill us, so we ran away." "What business had you in Sandy Ferguson's cottage?" [Pg 261] "He took us in when we hadn't any place to go to. I thought he was kind at first, but he wasn't." "Then you had run away from somewhere else?" "Yes," Elsie admitted, with a flushed face and look of shame. "We ran away from home." "What made you do that?" Elsie hung her head. How could she tell this gentleman all her suspicions? They seemed all so stupid now. "We were jealous because mother favoured Robbie so," she faltered, very much ashamed, and conscious that it was one of the most foolish-sounding reasons that could be. "Well," said the gentleman sharply, "you ran away, and you fell in with Sandy Ferguson, who wanted to kill you, and afterwards with this lady, who taught you to call her 'mamma.' Was she kind to you?" "At first she was. When she first saw us on the road we were very hungry and tired. She asked us the way, and said she was a fairy, and would come back again. She did come back, and brought beautiful clothes with her, which she gave to us, and she took us in a train to a house where we had beautiful and nice warm beds. Then she told us we were to call her 'mamma' always, and that she was our 'fairy mother.'" "This is very interesting," said the old gentleman, approvingly. "But what of the gentleman? Was he there?" "Uncle William? oh yes! He did not say much to us; but we did not like him. He called the driver an idiot, and I was afraid of him." Here the magistrate asked some questions of the officer standing near Elsie. "Then he did not come in the train with you from Edinburgh?" he presently inquired, turning again to Elsie. "Oh yes, he did," Elsie replied; "but he somehow changed. Mrs. Donaldson was talking to me, and the one we called 'Uncle William' was sitting right in the other corner. When I looked again he had gone, and there was another one quite old. Mrs. Donaldson said he was my Grandpapa Donaldson." "Then you thought, I suppose, that you had 'a fairy grandfather' as well as a 'fairy mother'? Tell me, did she undergo any wonderful transformation?" "Oh no!" Elsie began; but she suddenly recollected the change from the smiling, gaily-dressed, grand lady in the carriage to the sad-looking widow who had brought them the clothes. "Yes, I had forgotten. She did change," Elsie stammered, growing red and confused with fear. "I didn't mean it for a story." "Go on; tell us what she was like when you first saw her." "She was dressed gaily, and her bonnet had feathers and flowers. She had bracelets and sparkling earrings, and her hair was frizzed out over her forehead." "And you mean to say that when next you saw her, that is, when she came back as she promised she would, she was dressed in black, like a widow?" "Yes." "Did you not think that strange?" "Yes, it was all strange; she brought us clothes, the frock and hat that I have on now, and a coat for Duncan." "How did you know it was the same person?" "At first I thought it wasn't, but when I looked at her well, I could tell it was, by a funny look she had in her eyes. I am sure it was the same." "You are sure? very well. Now tell me where she took you? Try to remember the whole journey, from the time you met her on the country road to the time you reached London last night." "We walked to Killochrie," Elsie replied, "but we did not stay there. We got in a train and went to another place. Then we went in a carriage to a house, where we had some supper and stayed all night. The next morning, after breakfast, we went in another carriage to the train, and we were in that nearly all day. When we got out it was Edinburgh." "Yes; that is all very nicely told," the old gentleman said approvingly. "Now tell me where you went in Edinburgh." Elsie could not repress a shudder as she recollected that night in the dreary garret, but in spite of her nervous fear, it seemed a relief to be able to tell all her adventures to some one. In any case, she could not help doing so. She only hoped they would not ask her about Meg. "Duncan had been very poorly all day," Elsie continued. "It poured with rain the first day we ran away, and he got wet through. We had to lie on the floor of the loft, with a sack under us, in all our wet things. Mrs. Ferguson took away my frock and jacket, and Duncan's coat, to dry, but she never gave them back, so I think Duncan got cold, and he was very frightened and hungry, so it seemed to make him ill. The lady was very angry about it, but she said afterwards that it didn't matter much, and it would do just as well if she were to leave him behind in Edinburgh." "You are not answering my question," the magistrate reminded her. "Where did you go that night?" "They took us to a shop—a newspaper shop. It was a very high house, and there were lodgers. We were taken into an attic up at the top, and left by ourselves. In the night Duncan was very bad in his head, and screamed and jumped about, and in the morning I told Mrs. Donaldson that we must go to the hospital, for I was afraid Duncan would die. No one attended to him at all. She said we should, and we got into a carriage; but when I got out, and thought we were going to ask the people to take Duncan in, the other one came up and pushed me into the train before I knew anything about it." "That is a strange story," the old gentleman remarked, looking searchingly into Elsie's face. He then asked her a great many questions about it, as if he hardly believed what she had told him, but Elsie persisted in her statements. "Did you hear the name of the man who kept the shop?" he asked. Elsie thought a moment. "Mrs. Donaldson told Meg to tell Andrew to write, and let us know how Duncan was. I don't know if she meant him." "Ah! and who was Meg?" Elsie felt ready to cry with vexation. "She came in the carriage to carry Duncan," she replied quickly. "I think she was a servant." "Now, can you describe this house into which you were taken?" Elsie drew quite a breath of relief to think she had escaped so well. "We had to go down a lot of steps before we got to it," she replied, "and I remember there was a flesher next door." "You mean a butcher, and the house was a very high one, and the man's name, you think, was Andrew. Well, that is very good as far as it goes. Did you pass the Tolbooth in driving to the station?" "I don't know. I shouldn't have known it if I had." "Well, well, it seems you cannot tell us much about this house. The servant's name you say was Meg, and she had your brother when you last saw him. Where do you think he is now?" Elsie explained Mrs. Donaldson's promise, and her threat that he should be turned into the streets to die if she displeased her. There was an audible murmur in the court, which made Elsie conscious for the first time that there were people listening to her. "I know she will do it," Elsie went on, catching her breath rapidly. "She may have done it now." "You may rest easy about that," the magistrate said, kindly. "She is in a place where she can do nothing of the kind." But Elsie was only half re-assured. The next moment, however, she had a new alarm in the question, "Did you ever hear the name of Lucy Murdoch?" "Yes," Elsie faltered, very unwillingly. The old gentleman looked at her suspiciously. "Where did you hear it?" he inquired. "In the house at Edinburgh." "Well now, who did you hear speak of Lucy Murdoch?" "Meg begged me not to tell, and I said I wouldn't," Elsie replied, in much distress. "Meg was very kind to Duncan." "Ah well! you need not answer that question," the old gentleman said, with a smile. "Tell me your own proper name, and where your own mother lives?" "Elsie McDougall. We lived on Dunster Moor," Elsie replied, with a conscious blush. "She made me call myself Effie Donaldson." "A lovely place, too," the old gentleman said. "And you ran away? I hope you like it. Do you know that children who have run away have before now disappeared, and never been heard of again?" Elsie only cast down her eyes in frightened silence. "And what became of them, do you suppose?" he went on sternly. "Perhaps they were killed, perhaps they died of fright, and hunger, and misery. I should not like to say; only I know they never returned any more to their homes." The stern words were too much for Elsie. The sense of her own loneliness and danger, her separation from Duncan, and the misfortunes she had led him into, came over her with overwhelming force, and she wept bitterly. [Pg 262] "It is fortunate for you that you have fallen into the hands of the law," the old gentleman added, more kindly. "You will be safe, and will by-and-by be allowed to go back to your mother. That will do." She was then conducted out of the court by the officer who had brought her there, put into a cab, and driven back to the great court-yard, where she was once more delivered over to the charge of the woman. She spent the rest of the day in a dismal, ugly room, with a number of girls, who were rough and disagreeable and ill-tempered, and could not possibly have been more wretched. Her experience had made her distrustful of every one, so that she was dreadfully afraid of what might happen as the consequence of all she had betrayed. She was distracted, too, about Duncan, and altogether could find but meagre comfort in the promise that by-and-by she should be allowed to go back home again. CHAPTER XVIII.—HOME FROM MARKET. e seem to be doing right well to-day, judging by your face," exclaimed the hearty voice of Farmer Jarrett, as he encountered Mrs. McDougall in the market-place. "Yes, I'm thankful to say it," Mrs. McDougall replied. "I was just about to go and buy a thing or two. Ye're no waiting for me, are you?" "No, not that," the farmer returned. "I've a bit of business myself to be looking after. But we'd best be on our road before long. The sky doesna look so very well." Mrs. McDougall packed up her baskets one in the other, and stowed them away in the cart. She had sold everything but a few bundles of beans, and was well content. So she trudged off to buy some yarn and some homespun tweed where she could get the most for her money. When she returned, she found the horse harnessed, and Farmer Jarrett seated in his cart. She jumped up with a word or two of apology, and they started on their homeward way. "I've been a bit extravagant," she said presently. "I've bought a book for Elsie's birthday next month, and a pretty silk tie." "The wee bit lassie'll be just wild with delight," the farmer said, kindly. "She's getting a big lassie, and she's over-proud of her appearance," Mrs. McDougall said, not without a touch of pride. "It does no good to encourage vanity, but I wouldn't have her always longing for pretty things, so she shall just wear this tie to the kirk on the Sabbath Day. Her grannie would just give in to the bairn, and let her gang her own way altogether." "The old are apt to be foolish with their grandchildren," the farmer replied. "Yet your mother was a strict woman, and a good mother." "That's a true word," Mrs. McDougall replied. "And the poor old wifie must be just contented and happy, spending her last days with you and the bairns. With Nannie dead, and Dugald in a far land, she might have come to want. You've had your troubles, but you're not without a recompense. The brave and industrious find many a blessing." For to a Scottish woman few things would seem more dreadful than for her mother to come to want—the tie of relationship is so strong and sacred. Talking in this sober fashion, the farmer and his neighbour jogged on until they reached the skirts of the moor, soon after six o'clock. "We've escaped the rain," said the farmer; "but to all appearance, it won't hold off much longer." Presently Mrs. McDougall alighted, and with a few words of thanks, turned up the pathway leading to her own cottage. To her surprise, she found grannie and Robbie standing at the gate, peering along the road. "Am I late?" she exclaimed. "You weren't thinking I was lost, were you?" "It's the bairns we were looking for," quavered the old woman. "They're not home from school yet, an' there's no milk for your supper, for I would no trust Robbie alone." "Of course not," Mrs. McDougall said, hastily; "but they should ha' been home long ago. They would not loiter on the way all this time, surely." "That's what I've been thinking," the old woman returned. "Could any harm come to them?" "Of course it could. Ye need not doubt that," said Mrs. McDougall. "I must go right away, and see after them; but I am just tired, and that's the truth." [Pg 263] "You'll sit down, Meg, and have a bit o' something first," the old woman said anxiously, hovering round in speechless sympathy. "No, no; I'll just go at once," Mrs. McDougall returned, setting down her baskets. She tramped off quickly along the dusty road in the direction of Dunster. Presently some great drops of rain began to fall, and in a few minutes it came down in a perfect torrent. Still she trudged on, her heart filled with dim foreboding fears. Such a thing had never happened before. It would soon be getting dark. Could it be possible they had kept the children at school as a punishment? If so, it was shameful to leave them to come along that lonely road at such an hour, and she would not use mild words in telling them so. At last she arrived at the school-house. It was closed and dark. She knocked at the mistress's cottage, and then learnt, to her horror and dismay, that the children had never been to school at all that day. The poor creature stood for a moment in utter bewilderment. What was the next thing to be done? Ah! that was a difficulty indeed. It was not far to the village. She would go there, and inquire of her few acquaintances if they could help her. So she turned away and started off again in the rain, quite forgetting now that she was tired, and hungry, and wet. It was dark by the time she reached the village shop. Her friend who kept it had not seen the children since yesterday, when she gave them a piece of pudding. There was nothing for it but to tramp home, in the hope that they had returned. But only disappointment awaited her. They were not there. Then she went up into their little rooms, and found that they had worn their best clothes, and had taken all their pennies out of their money-boxes. For the first time then the dreadful suspicion entered her head that they had run away. But for what purpose? That was what she could not make out. The only thing that occurred to her was that they might have wanted to go and see the market, and spend their money—that they had walked there, and perhaps—who could tell?—lost their way. The more she thought of it, the more she felt sure that this could be the only solution to the mystery. It was a certain amount of comfort to have some definite idea to go to work upon, but even then there were so many possibilities of danger that the poor woman shuddered as she thought of it. Well, there was nothing to be done but to start off again. It was now quite dark, and pouring with rain. Mrs. McDougall was already very wet, but she never gave it a thought. She walked briskly along the road leading in the opposite direction from the one to Dunster. Every now and then she stopped and listened intently, peering among the trees that skirted the road or across the expanse of moor. She only met one person, an old woman, trudging along in the rain, and at last she had arrived at the town she had left only a few hours before, which lay ten miles distant from her own cottage. Only to find fresh disappointment. No one could give her the least information. They had not been seen in the place, so far as she could learn, and so there was nothing to be done but to tramp back again all that weary ten miles. Yes, one thing. It seemed a dreadful step, but it must be done. She was face to face with the fact that the children were lost, and the chance of finding them that night was now small indeed. With a few inquiries she found her way to the police-station, and there she told her story—told it with a grim soberness on her face that might have passed for unconcern with those stupid people, who think that what they cannot read has no existence. "They'll be found, never fear," said a kindly policeman. "To-morrow morning the description will be telegraphed to every town in the country. There'll be posters out everywhere, and they can't fail to be found by some one." "To-morrow morning! And what about to-night?" Mrs. McDougall asked. "Nothing can be done to-night! it's nearly eleven now," the man replied. "You just go home, and don't worry. They're safe somewhere, I'll be bound—perhaps nearer at hand than you have any idea of." It was true enough: there was nothing further to be done—nothing but to tramp back with that heavy load of care and the dread of terrors too great to put into words. So she took her way home again. It was long past midnight when she reached the cottage. Grannie was waiting up, crooning to herself over the fire. On the table lay the book and the tie bought for Elsie's birthday. Mrs. McDougall took them up hastily, and put them out of sight. "Go to bed, mother," she said; "they'll be home to- morrow." "I'm glad o' that; it's all well, then," she said, quite unsuspiciously. "You're upset, Meg. It's been a shock to you." "I'm tired. I'll get a bit of supper and rest a bit," Mrs. McDougall returned. Her eyes were red and ringed, and had a look in them worse than the look of tears. [Pg 264] The old woman went off to bed, and Mrs. McDougall sat down by the fire, though not to eat. All night she sat listening, and many a time she got up and walked out to the gate, peering through the darkness, in the fancy that she had caught some sound. Still the rain poured down, the night dragged on, and the children were, as we know, far enough away. CHAPTER XIX.—MRS. FERGUSON IS BAFFLED. hen Robbie awoke next morning at his usual early hour, and saw no sign of his mother in the room, he thought he must have overslept himself, so he jumped up quickly, and dressed. He ran downstairs into the kitchen, and found Mrs. McDougall seated before the empty grate. She turned her head quickly as Robbie entered. In a moment the child saw that something dreadful was the matter. Never in all his life had he seen his mother look like that. The child glanced at her wonderingly, then came close to her, with the quick sympathy which is so sweet. "Mother," he said, "is it Elsie and Duncan? Haven't you found them yet?" "No, Robbie," Mrs. McDougall replied. "They're just lost, and that's all about it." Robbie could not understand how it could be, but he saw that his mother was in great trouble, and he did not like to ask any questions. "This will not do," Mrs. McDougall said, with a heavy sigh, as she rose resolutely from her chair, and began bustling about. "You shouldn't ha' got up yet, Robbie. It's over early for you." "I thought it was late," Robbie said. "Mother," he added eagerly, "might I—oh! might I run and fetch the milk for you? Oh, do just let me go!" Illustration: THE CHILD GLANCED AT HER WONDERINGLY "the child glanced at her wonderingly" (p. 264). "Dear me! no, child," Mrs. McDougall replied. "You'd be lost too." "Should I?" Robbie said, very crestfallen. "Can't I do nothing, mother?" [Pg 265] "Yes; you shall feed the hens. You know how to do that, don't you, Robbie? I'll just get the food ready for them." Robbie was delighted. He longed to be useful. Mrs. McDougall bustled about, and got the breakfast—porridge without milk—set everything in order, then went up to see to her mother, just as if nothing had happened. She was not the woman to sit idly nursing her troubles. As soon as she had partaken of a little food, she prepared to depart once more on her anxious errand, with many an injunction to Robbie not to go outside the gate, and to keep a watch, in case Elsie and Duncan might return, but be afraid to enter. At the police-station there was no news. Bills were being printed, she was informed, and would be widely distributed before the day was out. Any information they received should be sent to her. She waited for more than an hour in order to see the bill. It was some sort of consolation to her to see the great black letters, and read the description of the children in black and white. "This cannot fail to find them," the officer told her. "Every police office in the country will be furnished with this description. The children can't have got very far away. Some of our men must come across them." "Far enough away to have got beyond our reach," Mrs. McDougall said, dubiously. "And who knows but they may have fallen into bad hands, or got stuck in some bog in the blackness of the night?" she added, with a shudder. "They'd keep fast enough to the road," the man said, re-assuringly. "I'd rather ten times over that they should be lying dead in the woods or on a mountain side than that they should fall into the hands of wicked men and women!" Mrs. McDougall said fervently. "The mercies of God are a deal more tender than those of men. I could thank God with all my heart to know that He had them safe." "There are bad enough folk about," the policeman assented, "but your children are over young to get led astray." "I pray the Almighty that He'll grant them a merciful death rather than they should fall into bad hands," Mrs. McDougall said, wearily, as she rose to go. "Better for them to die of cold than to be murdered by violence, or made to lie and steal." "You're taking an over gloomy view of the matter, good wife," the man said, cheerfully; "and perhaps you'll be getting them back safe and sound before nightfall." But that was not to be. The description of the children was, truly enough, sent to every town or village that could boast a police-station, and was eagerly discussed that very nightfall in many a remote cottage. Had the children wandered farther, to even the first village on their road, they must have been found, but they were safely hidden from the outer world in the least suspected place of any—the miserable hovel of one of those wretched tillers of the land, too poor to deserve the name of farmer, with which some parts of Scotland abound. The man was listless, and apathetic with hunger and poverty, a miserable, degraded creature, who would have sacrificed anything or anybody for the sake of the few pounds that would pay his rent or sow his tiny bit of unproductive land. He was the very last sort of person to hear rumours of the lost children. On that day when he and his wretched beast had toiled the distance of twenty miles to fetch a load of fish refuse from the nearest fishing village in order to enrich his bit of barren land, the bills about the children were not yet distributed. Even had they been, he was little likely to have heard about them, for he was too dull and dejected to talk with his neighbours. When he met them on the road, the idea of giving them a lift would not have penetrated his mind had not Elsie herself requested it. Yet the man was no worse than his fellows, and had an element of unselfish kindness in him, which was shown by his giving them the old sack to sit upon. Under happier auspices he would probably have been a very decent sort of person, but the hopeless hardship of his existence had gradually wiped out every ambition and hope, till at last he had sunk into something scarcely better than an animal. And, children, let me tell you that there are plenty of us, now bright and gentle and happy, who in Sandy Ferguson's place would have been no better than he; and I wonder whether we always remember that God judges every one, even His little ones, according to the opportunities they have had? Sandy had no thought of injuring the children any more than of assisting them; but his wife, who was cleverer, and had therefore become cunning and shrewish under the sordid cares of her life, saw directly that she might gain something by keeping them. She had taken away their clothes, partly because it angered her to see these ungrateful runaway children warmly clothed while her own were shivering in their rags, but far more with the idea of preventing their escape. Their friends would come after them, and it would be her own fault if she didn't see some of their money, she told herself. Five of her children had died from illness, caused by want and cold and misery; it was little wonder that she had grown grasping and cruel. Yet she, too, meant them no harm. She was anxious enough to get rid of them, for the miserable food that she gave them had to be stolen from their own portions. She looked out eagerly for passers-by, in the hope that the children's [Pg 266] friends would overtake them, yet jealously kept her secret, for fear that others might outwit her and reap the reward. On that day when she had been occupied in listening to a long account of a neighbour's affairs, and had, as she supposed, got the children doubly safe, by virtue of the watch she had set over them as well as the safe custody of their clothes, she had been startled by hearing from this very neighbour an account of how two children had been lost off the moor, and a reward offered for them. She kept her countenance admirably, and pretended to be most astonished and interested, but she sat on thorns, fearing Sandy would betray her. The neighbours stayed long, having much to talk of, and when at last they departed, Mrs. Ferguson went on cleaning, satisfied that the children were safe, since they were all together, and Sandy with them. Illustration: THE SONG OF A LITTLE BIRD the song of a little bird (p. 267). By-and-by Sandy came in, and stood staring hopelessly. Then he began to scratch his head, and looked altogether so stupid that Mrs. Ferguson administered him a good shaking, and demanded of him what he meant by it. "Where be the bairns?" Sandy asked, in his rough Gaelic. Then Mrs. Ferguson flew out, and when she could see none of them her wrath knew no bounds. Young Sandy and Jamie, her two boys, were discovered under the cart, and when dragged out and cuffed, declared that Elsie and Duncan had beaten them, and then run as fast as they could down the road; that they had called as loudly as they could, but were unable to make any one hear; and plenty more tales, that their mother knew were made up to shield themselves. Having called them every bad name she could think of, and dealt them some stinging blows, she flew along the road to seek them. The road wound about pretty much, and as they were nowhere in sight, she concluded they must have gone by it. She came back furiously angry and disappointed, and continued her search till nightfall in the immediate neighbourhood of the croft, but without success. Sandy and Jamie were not to be envied that night. Thus it happened that the police were quite baffled in their endeavours to find the children, and after they had fallen into Mrs. Donaldson's hands the description given was not accurate. (To be continued.) THE SONG OF A LITTLE BIRD. [Pg 267] T hough I'm but a small bird, I may often be heard These evenings in dreary November, And my sisters and cousins Come listening by dozens, To songs they can learn and remember. No nightingale I, Yet when light's in the sky It seems to go through me and through me Till I'm overflowing With music, scarce knowing What wonder is happening to me. Oh, Spring-time is sweet, When loving birds meet, But Autumn's the season for singing, When all the dear swallows Come out from the hollows, And over the ocean are winging. We stay where we are, While they voyage afar, But the parting leaves us tender-hearted, And we sing the more clearly Of those we love dearly When scores of our friends have departed. A. M. A FEW WORDS ABOUT THE DYKES OF HOLLAND. f all the wonderful countries in the world, and there are many, I do not think there is any one half so wonderful as Holland. We have a saying here that "God made the country, but man made the town," but in Holland it is said "God made the world, but man made Holland," and "God made the sea, but man made the shore." Ages ago Holland was a wild desolate place in the midst of seas and lakes, with here and there a forest of trees. The first people to settle here were some German tribes, and a hard time they had of it. First of all they had to build strong dykes or embankments round the place in which they were going to encamp, so as to keep out the sea and the waters of the rivers, which wandered where they would, without proper channels; and after that they built rude huts and hovels for themselves. Sometimes they would be able to hold their own for a long time, but it often happened that there would be storms and high tides, and then their settlements would be swept away. Then they moved off somewhere else, living in the meantime as best they could on fish and game and sea-birds' eggs. At length many of these tribes joined together to see if they could not find some place where they would be more protected, and where they might unite in building great dykes which should be able to resist the seas and the wandering rivers. So they first entrenched themselves; then they spread out farther afield and enclosed larger tracts of land; then they built dykes big enough to protect whole provinces, and at last they made a great sea-wall or embankment round the whole land. But why was all this labour necessary? you will ask. Well, it was because the country lies so low that the waters could sweep over it; and even to-day, although there are beautiful towns and cities in Holland, with hundreds and thousands of people, and thousands upon thousands of cattle, the land is lower than the sea; the cities are built upon piles driven into the sand; the river-beds are higher than the tops of the houses, and at any moment, if the dykes were to burst, or the rivers to overflow, the whole country with all its inhabitants might be swept away. It has been well said that "Holland is a conquest made by man over the sea. It is an artificial country. The Hollanders made it. It exists because the Hollanders preserve it. It will vanish whenever the Hollanders shall abandon it." The dykes or embankments have been made in this way: first of all secure and massive foundations had to be laid, the ground being compressed to make it very solid. Then walls, or dykes, were reared of earth, sand, and mud, so tightly compressed as to be quite impervious to water. The whole was bound with twigs of willows interwoven with wonderful care, and the spaces filled with clay so as to make them almost as hard as stone. [Pg 268]